Avenger
by Hikaru Irving
Summary: Oneshot. Arlen was a young man in his late teens, a junior druid in training. On a task to escort druid initates to be back to the main priesthood, he finds his brothers in arms and spirit murdered in cold blood. And the killer is none other than an angel


A/N: This idea came to me while I was reading Marion Zimmer Bradley's novel The Forest House, the prequel to The Mists of Avalon, based on Authrian legends.

Disclaimer: I do not own Tales of Symphonia in any way, shape or form, and I do not make any material profit from this work. It is purely fan made fun.

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Arlen stopped, crouching down among the barren rocks of the southernmost mountains of the Fooji continent, catching his breath. The high noon sun beat down on him, his brow slick with warm prespriation. Climbing the mountains to Shadow's temple was no easy task. And that he had been sent to the Temple of Darkness alone ... it must be some sort of test the senior druids were giving him. He was but a junior druid priest, trained in the old knowlege of mana and magic. The druids were a special clan. Many sects of them lived throughout Tethe'alla, and rather like the people of Mizuho, they lived in seclusion. The people of Mizuho were skilled at secrecy, but the druidic preisthood had no such skill, even with their eons of knowledge handed down by teaching and word of mouth alone, for to write down such words, such power, was utterly meaningless. It is not enough to merely read about doing a certain thing. Though the priesthood might build lodges in the woods or in the mountains, it would be only a matter of time before they were discovered by those Cruxiatic Tethe'allans, those who followed the Chruch of Martel and its angels. Many of the settlements of the druids had been converted to Houses of Guidance and abbeys when they were discovered and driven out. Sometimes many druids would be killed, taken to the Meltokio Colisuem to be paraded in ridicule before they were pit against monsters, and destroyed.

Arlen tightened the belt of his light grey linen robe, the sickle knife tied to it swaying with his movement. He ran a hand, gloved with honey-brown leather, through his short golden hair. Amber eyes surveyed the scenery. The Temple of Darkness would be upon him soon. Druids would train in such places, the domains of the Summon Spirits, before they were to be initiated as senior druid preists. The druids had a priestess sect as well, but they trained in the realm of the moon, not the sun. Arlen had not been alive when it had happened, but supposedly there was a rift between the druid priests and priestesses. The priests had been trying to control the priestesses, and the holy women left the druids. The two sects reunited only at the Midsummer festival, the time of the year when the powers of fertility were greatest. The priests and priestesses would mingle, and the priestesses would bear children, the girls to become priestesses, the boys sent to become druids. The location of these, among other, festivals changed every time, lest the Cruxis followers find them out.

Deciding the time for resting was done, Arlen continued his climb. The senior druids and the Arch-Druid were expecting him to succeed, to bring back the druids training at the Temple of Darkness. That was one of the most dangerous temples in Tethe'alla, for not only were the undead monsters powerful, but the incredibly powerful darkness was also a great hindrance in staying alive. Especially for the druid priests, who received and used the powers of the sun to gain enlightenment, and to fight.

Arlen had not reached the temple until late afternoon. The darkness inside the temple was absolute, even on the uppermost level, the entrance hall. Yet when Arlen entered the temple, the darkness was not as he would have supposed it would be. It was still dim, but he could see clearly. That should not be in the Temple of Darkness, Shadow's keep. There must be something going on for the temple to be alight like this. Gripping the hilt of his sickle knife resolutely, Arlen ventured into the temple, prepared for the worst.

As he climbed down the staircases, he heard a noise, the roar of a monster. He turned on the stair landing--a rattling of bones, the steel scrape of a sword--an undead skeleton warrior. Arlen cursed under his breath. More skeletons crept toward him, golden bones tarnished like bronze, rusted blades raised to attack. Arlen drew the sickle knife, drawing the power of mana from all around him.

"Mana, root of all creation, gather before me!"

The power welled up within him, from the soles of his feet, spreading to the rest of his body. Visible, the mana would have resembled a many-boughed tree sprouting from seed to grown form quite rapidly. The spell circle drew itself at his feet, glowing bright blue against the dark stone floor. The skeleton warriors paid no heed, continuing their advance. Arlen raised his dagger.

"Spread!"

Water materialized underneath the skeleton warriors, as did immense pressure--in a single moment the pressure was released, and a great geyser erupted, rending the skeletons to pieces. Arlen took deep breaths as the spell neutralized, sheathing his sickle dagger. His leather boots clicked against the floor as he made haste. Through fire and other media the senior druids should have contacted the druids training here. They should have been waiting for Arlen at the entrance of the temple. Yet they were not there.

Arlen knew deep down, something was wrong.

Crystals lit the way on the down-slanted path even more brightly than the strange phenomenon that lifted Shadow's darkness from the temple. Arlen hurried down the stone ramp, heart pounding. He had fought more monsters as he progressed--the training druids should have killed more monsters than that! Why would the druids stint in their duty to train themselves in battle? Mastery of mana was not enough--to be able to invoke it on an instant's notice was an important trait for not only self-defense, but for the defense of the druidic tribes as a whole. For the Cruxiatic followers were intent enough to wipe them out entirely if given the chance; even the elves might, for they viewed the druids as devil spawn of humans and elves who had stolen the sacred ancient knowledge. Arlen knew the druidic priesthood, as well as the priestesses, contained some renegade elves, some half-elves, but the majority of them were humans with elves in their ancestry.

When Arlen touched upon the platform suspended in the middle of the temple, his nostrils stung with the scent of lingering blood, of flames, water, upended earth, and stagnated mana ... the evidence of a great battle fought with magic of the highest caliber. His body froze, filled with dread. Yet he must see to it that the druids training here were safe. He ran to the center of the platform--

And stopped completely, mouth agape, eyes wide in horror. He fell to his knees, a hoarse scream rattling his throat.

Masks of skull askew, robes torn and matted with dried blood, their bodies mangled, torn, ragged, and burned--there lay the druids that had been training here. They lay scattered, but if they had been standing, they would have stood in a circle--druids standing in circles was a form of ritual activation, to use magic together into one stand to defend themselves ... and yet they fell.

"No ... No!"

Arlen staggered to the bodies of the druid priests, their corpses twisted, as if they had been attacked by very powerful adversaries. He had not known all of these druids, but there was one he had known, the one that had looked after him even as he had been only a novice priest ... He dug among the bodies until he found the familiar face, a small smile upon it even in death.

"Argo," Arlen breathed, bending over the body, mouth covered in horror. "Argo, no ..."

Argo was a great druid, accomplished not only in the ways of magic, but a polished warrior as well. He had wielded a lance with deadly strength. To think that even Argo had fallen ... Arlen blinked. He sensed mana focused on the red sun crest on Argo's forehead, the symbol of initiated druids. But why did Argo have that? He wouldn't have been initiated until after his training in Shadow's keep! Arlen noticed the crest was rather crudely done, done not in the paint usually used, but in blood. His own blood. Arlen swallowed the lump in his throat. He touched a hand to the sun crest, where the mana was gathered--

A light in his mind flashed.

_Eight travelers, four of whom fought the druids on this platform, five fragments of darkness in tow. A young man with unruly brown hair using twin blades, a woman half-elf with silver hair, the healer of the group, a red-haired man with a sword--and a young woman with long blonde hair, a pair of chakrams in hand ... and magenta translucent wings sprouting from her shoulders. The red jewel on her throat--it was a Cruxis Crystal, the mark of an angel of Cruxis. The swordsmen began the fight. Argo was leading the other druids in fighting these intruders on sacred ground. He attacked head on, the druids in the back ranks chanting their spells. The healer half-elf knew some offense magic, and with these she struck a druid down. The swordsmen attacked Argo relentlessly, their attacks wearing him down. _

_It was not the healer half-elf, or the swordsmen that finally brought all the druids down as they formed the circle of power. It was the blonde woman, the angel, that floated in the air, her wings lighting up the darkness, crystalline feathers swirling all around her as she called upon the power of the Goddess Martel._

_"O Holy One, cast thy purifying light upon this corrupt soul. Light of judgment ... Judgment!"_

_The world seemed to stop, frozen in the depths of time. Rays of light rained down upon the battlefield, burning the druids they struck, killing them where they stood. As the preists died writhing in their own blood, the angel and her companions moved on, to the seal where Shadow slept ..._

Arlen fell backward, breathing hard. He remembered the likeness of the angel that struck down his brother druid priests. He had seen Argo's memory, the memory of his final battle, and the one who killed him and the other priests. Arlen looked on Argo's face again--the bloody sun crest was gone, the mana embedded within it dissolved. Arlen drew the sickle knife. He carved a circle around his fallen brothers, engraving the appropriate runes to send them peacefully to their place of rest. Mana glowed underfoot. He withdrew from his leather pouch dried herbs, tossing them over the bodies. To complete the ritual he slashed the knife against his palm, bright crimson dashed across the pale skin. Arlen squeezed his hand, the hot blood dripping over the site. With a murmur he healed the wound, sheathed his dagger.

"Thou wilt be avenged ... Argo!"


End file.
